Aftermath
by Nikoru-chan
Summary: Twentyverse 5. Chapter 8 uploaded. It's not really like this base is all /that/ well defended, so, truly, what's a little breaking and entering between friends? C and C much appreciated.
1. Chapter 1

Aftermath

By Nchan

Disclaimer: The characters within belong almost entirely to entities that are not me. These include AOL TimeWarner, DC comics etc. At the moment I'm too broke to even buy a Batman T-shirt, so there's really no gain to be made by suing me.

Notes: This fic is Twenty-verse. It is the fifth in the series, and comes immediately after 'The Broken Glass Eulogy.' It may be read as a stand-alone detective story, but the character interplay will make a lot more sense to those who've read the rest of the Twenty series.

In terms of canon, that's a heck of a lot trickier; Twenty kicks off with Batman's Great Betrayal, and has been pretty divergent from there. However, some of the subsequent events in comic-dom will dovetail nicely with Twenty-verse, so I'll make some attempt to integrate in between having Huntress kick the place apart. At the moment, think pre-War Games, pre-Identity Crisis, well and truly pre-52 (since I haven't read it yet) and, obviously, pre-One Year Later. In team-up comics, that means pre-current incarnation of the Teen Titans. The other thing of canonical note is that in Twenty-verse, despite an absence of nearly a year while he was off being tortured and brainwashed, Tim has never given up the Robin mantle, and Batman has never offered it to Spoiler.

Chapter I

He awoke, again, in a medical bed in the Cave. This time, however, he was neither shackled nor watched – at least by direct human observation.

//Well, that's a pleasant enough change,// Tim thought muzzily as he sat up, sheets sliding off into a tangled debris at the foot of the bed. //And it looks like I sleep sprawling again.// Pulling down the T-shirt that had somehow ridden up in sleep until it sat somewhere north of his midriff – a smooth, unmarked expanse, he noted – Tim slipped out of the bed.

He felt. . . good. So much so that it seemed almost surprising. Gone were the agonizing holes in his psyche, the commands whispering and demanding at him. The faint tug of scar tissue was gone, too. It had never been a limit to his movement, but its presence had been a reminder all the same that he was not his own, that he belonged to someone else. Property, not person. //But maybe not anymore.//

It wasn't that the memory of the last few months was gone, or even distant. It wasn't as though it belong to someone else either, or as if his return to himself had destroyed or degraded the 'being' – for he wasn't quite generous enough to call it a 'person' – that he'd been for much of that time. It was just, he realized with no small amount of wonder, that it didn't hurt as much as it had.

And that was no small treasure indeed.

Wincing slightly at the coldness of the cave floor beneath his bare feet, he padded over towards the Crays, whose bluish-green light spattered an eerie illumination over the rest of the cave. Batman, it seemed, had a case.

On closer inspection, Batman didn't have a case so much as a fire to put out. And he was doing it in remarkably tactful Bruce Wayne form. Tim bit back a grin at the incongruity of the dapper playboy's voice coming from behind the grim pointy eared mask. Then, as he listened in to the phone conversation, his good humour faded.

"Well, for heaven's sake, Jack, I didn't even know that Tim was missing! . . . You'd moved to Metropolis and I just figured he'd gone with you . . . no, no . . . funeral? What invitation to a funeral? . . . oh, I might have been in Barbados. Or was it Paris? . . . But he's alive, you say, so it doesn't matter that I missed his funeral . . . Still in Gotham? Great! I'd love to catch up with him . . . oh, he's supposed to come to Metropolis this weekend? Well, you boys have a nice . . . didn't show up? Well then where is he? . . . No I don't know anything about a family called 'Casey'. . . 'Mireba'? Don't they own that big building downtown? I think I went to a party there a couple of months ago. Or was that the 'Manly' building. . . I'll have to ask Lucius. . . Yes, I'll do that . . . doesn't remember you? Why? . . . But how do you know that if you haven't seen him for . . . Oh. Oh, I see. . . But if that's what they told you then why would they lie? . . .Just hold on, before you panic that he might be 'wandering the streets again', he may not remember you, but there's nothing to say he doesn't know where or who he is now. Maybe something came up and he couldn't go this weekend. . . Uh huh. No, I can't think why an adolescent boy who was rescued off the streets with no memory of running away from boarding school only to be enslaved by a drug gang could _possibly_ not want to . . . Me? Sarcastic? . . . Listen, have you rung the people, those corporate people, who first contacted you saying they'd found him and asked them? . . .Oh, Saturday, huh. Well, I'll talk to my people, Lucius and my secretary, and see if we have any contact details for any of them. . . what was their lawyer's name again?. . . No, no problem. Bye."

With a barely concealed expression of distaste, Batman slid the phone back into it's cradle. "What a mess."

"Yeah, sorry about that." Tim slid into the pool of light given off by the monitors. Only years of training kept Batman from startling at his sudden appearance. Tim politely pretended not to notice. //Well, it looks like my 'sneaky-time' skills haven't been affected by the Supercycle's healing. //

"No need. The question now is, how do you wish to deal with it?"

Only his own self control kept Tim from drawing a sharp breath at that. There it was. Right there, out and in the open. Batman – Bruce – mentor, teacher, leader, was allowing him room for independence. Some months ago he'd promised to earn the right to Robin's - at that stage, Van's - new identity rather than to simply take it. It looked like the sentiment still held, even if the conversation with Jack Drake had blown the details away. //though I'd be kidding myself if I didn't think this was also a test of sorts. Even though I know that I'm healing, that I'm me, Batman's gotta be getting sick of not being sure exactly who is going to wake up every time I pass out.//

"Dad . . ." It felt strange somehow to use the term, and Tim tasted it carefully before repeating it. "Dad's expecting to see me. Well, an amnesiac version of me. I'd hate to disappoint him. And if being with him and Dana suddenly 'jogs my memory', that's all well and good." His voice hardened. "I will not leave Gotham for this, though. We'll be too busy cleaning after the …and anyway, the city still needs patrolling." //And besides, look what happened the last time I got on a train for Metropolis.// He steeled himself for argument.

"Very well. I will arrange for him to come to Gotham."

"To do that, you will need to know my current civilian identity." //You're not the only one who can hand out tests, Batman.// He watched the older man's face closely. //Time to stay a little bit unpredictable, though.// "But you already do, don't you." It was not a question.

//The moment Jack Drake spoke the name 'Mireba' you had all the information you needed to gain my full name. Heck, when he said 'Casey' you were given the second half of it. That identity is a lost cause.// Tim found he was surprised that he couldn't quite distinguish if he was disappointed or relieved. //But it was still a good lesson in how to set up an identity. And if I play it right, both Lady Kaguya and Shishou will come out of this as nothing more than figments of imagination that exist nowhere but on scraps of paper.// He owed his adoptive parents vastly more than that, but at the very least it was something he could do for them. Wherever they were.

It was, in a way, something of a revelation both to, and of, himself; he was healed and confident in his own skin again. The identity that had been so crucial, almost a crutch, had in the space of an afternoon, become almost irrelevant. //I am myself. I am Robin. I don't need to be Van Casey anymore. I know that no matter what name I wear, I will always be Kaguya and Shishou's 'Little Bird'. And I am brave enough to meet my father, and to keep lying to him about my 'extra-curricular activities'. I am brave enough to be 'Tim Drake'.//

Before him, his mentor's face was unreadable. //I guess he's realized I'm giving him a test of my own.// It took him a moment to realize the man was responding to his statement.

"That is largely true, and for both our sakes I will know the details before I speak to Jack Drake."

//Honesty. Refreshing.//

"But it is up to you how you want me to obtain those details. Tell me what I need to know, and I will noneed to know, and I will not probe further." 'Unless necessary' was the unspoken addendum, but it was not unfelt. Tim concurred; preparation spared much grief, particularly in their line of work.

So, without hesitation, without rancor, and without regret, Robin told him.

Forty-five minutes later, Jack Drake received a phone call. His son had missed the train, and without a phone or phone number, been unable to contact the older Drake. Ecstatic, Jack agreed to travel down the following day.

Despite his initial concerns, Robin's patrol that evening was largely uneventful. While a workout in the cave followed by a sparring session with Batgirl demonstrated that he'd lost none of his Vingt-given prowess and his behavior continued to be completely 'Tim', it was none the less a Batfamily in force that met upon the rooftop of a Wayne Enterprises skyscraper. Then Nightwing took the docks, Batgirl the Northside, and Batman and Robin went for Eastern.

Twenty minutes after they'd all departed, Spoiler arrived on the rooftop. She hadn't meant to be late, she really hadn't. But she'd had to see Connor off; he was going back to spend some time with Ollie and the new Speedy in Opal City and while she knew he looked on the other blonde girl as a sister, she was still going to make damned sure he didn't forget his girlfriend.

//Figures they'd be gone! Nearly a year that I've been 'in the fold' and they still don't… I bet they'd wait for Batgirl!// throttling her resentment, she stalked to the edge of the roof. //And now Robin's back and they're all over him, even though his head is totally screwed up!// grumbling, she readied her jumpline. She'd noticed a lot of traffic on the communicator the previous evening, but by the time she'd gotten to Gotham Stadium, the place had been a pile of rubble with everyone long gone. A distracted Oracle – whoever _that_ really was behind the synthesized voice - had confirmed that no-one was hurt, exactly, that everyone was 'busy', and that she should keep watch over the city. Spoiler had hoped to get the details that night, but it looked like it would have to wait until after patrol. //Patrol, patrol, patrol. I'm better than this! I know I am! One day, I'll do something really big, something to really make them stand up and take notice!// It was a favorite fantasy, one that Conner Hawke had talked her out of exploring further on a fairly regular basis.

But maybe not this time.

Then the irritation was gone with a leap from the roof, the rush of air, the thrill of the swing to the next roof obliterating it. With a silent chortle, Spoiler sped west, skirting Catwoman's turf. It would keep. If just for a little while, it would keep.

End Notes: Liked it? Hated it? please C+C. Commentary isn't why I write, but it is why I post.

For those who were hanging out for 'Partial Pressure of Oxygen', yes, it is coming. I have one more reference I'm trying to locate so I can check a particular argument, and then, when I'm happy it's sound, I'll post.


	2. Chapter 2

Aftermath

Chapter II

Again, I stress the same information: The characters portrayed herein do not belong to me. What I do with them is not canon (despite the relative liberty that this acknowledgement brings, I have nonetheless nobly refrained from having Captain Jack Harkness wander through and 'say hello' to the entire Batclan. Such restraint. Proud of me?) Semi-seriously, this time my own bunch don't make an appearance and thus all the characters belong to the nice people at DC who are hopefully not going to sue me for playing with them. I'm still paying off my exam fees and will be too broke to be worth the legal costs for some time to come. Sigh.

An uneventful patrol was just what everyone had needed, and the batclan found themselves silently united in their general gratitude for it. Gotham could be a temperamental mistress; not above throwing disaster after disaster towards her dedicated knights, pulling monstrosity and madness from both the grimy corners of her alleys and the sterile illumination of her boardrooms.

Robin, especially, had reason to be grateful. That first patrol, into which he was included so quickly, allowed him to once again demonstrate his competence to his stoic mentor. While the latter was taciturn to a fault, experience allowed him to read satisfaction in his mentor's body-language. //I will be 'flying solo' again in no time,// he thought, checking the ties on the wrists of two would-be burglars. In a way, it reminded him of the first patrol he'd had after his return to the Batclan; damaged in body and soul, warped and hurting. Fiercely suppressing a shiver, he shied away from the thought of the call to police headquarters, and the carnage, that had followed. //Kaze, you should never have died like that, my friend. Nobody should ever be a puppet. Nobody should have to.//

It did not occur to him to wonder where Spoiler was; his automatic assumption was that she was with the latest Green Arrow. Later, he would wonder whether asking, checking, would have made the slightest bit of difference, but at the time he simply lost himself in the joy of the jumplines, the pull and swing of leaps across and between buildings, the gentle kiss of Gotham's night breeze on his brow. Later still, he would bitterly regret not asking sooner.

The next morning, after a very refreshing five hours of deep, trance-like sleep, Tim got up, dressed carefully, and with a shy smile and a belly full of 'Alfred's special breakfast', went to meet his father. He'd noted the breakfast - and his mentor's presence at the table - with a wry smile; they may not have been expecting him to make a bolt for it, but both Bruce and Alfred were obviously anticipating at least a little bit of anxiety on his part. His shrug was purely internal and his behaviour utterly blasé; it didn't hurt to keep them guessing a bit.

Truth be told, Tim _was_ nervous. He was fairly confident that his father still wanted to see him; the man had come to Gotham himself, after all, but whether that was for reunions or recriminations remained to be seen. Tim hoped it was reunions. While they'd been growing distant in the months before Tim's abduction, and the time spent together had been punctuated by fights, there had still been substantial residual affection. Selfishly, Tim hoped Dana had been persuaded to come; she'd always been a very calming influence on his father, and had subtly helped to heal more family rifts that Tim suspected his father had ever given her credit for.

The agreed upon meeting place was a quiet coffee house; discreet and well-appointed, it was also an unlisted subsidiary of Wayne enterprises, making it easy to guarantee a private, but very visible, table. It was also 'neutral ground' for both of them; no matter how many disputes father and son had weathered in the months leading up to the elder's departure from Gotham and the younger's kidnapping, there would be no shouting matches here. Or so Tim fervently hoped. //Dad hates a scene. Or at least, he hates a public scene.// With a little bit of luck, that, at least, would not have changed too drastically in the months since he'd last seen Drake senior.

It was a shock seeing the man who stepped out of the sophisticated black sedan; grey-templed for as long as Tim could remember, his father had never seemed truly old. That, it was apparent, had changed. He was uncertain if it was care that had slowed the man's moves, or grief that carved wrinkled rivulets into his features. But either way, the months since his return from his honeymoon had aged him. Tim shifted on the entry steps uncertainly, suddenly feeling skittish as he eyed the older man.

Then the lines crinkled up as below them the man's lips stretched into a broad grin, transforming worry wrinkles into smile lines. "It _is_ you! Oh, my son, my boy, it's really you!" He could have evaded the bear hug that descended on him, but Tim found he didn't want to. //Dad.// Held close, warm and safe, Tim luxuriated in the feeling that maybe, just possibly, everything would be alright.

Then the hard part came.

"Oh Timmy, Timmy, I thought . . . I was so scared I'd lost you!" The arms around him tightened, "so scared!" Forcibly reminding himself to be hesitant, that as far as his father knew, Tim was an amnesiac by the name of Van, he returned the embrace. //'Timmy'. He hasn't called me that since Mom died.// Swallowing a lump in his own throat, Tim's arms tightened of their own accord.

Carefully, he composed his features into a pleased, but slightly confused, expression, as he mentally ran through the speech he'd prepared for this moment. It would require timing, good acting, and a great deal of luck. //I pull this off right, and I win something even better than an Oscar for best actor. I win a life – my life!// Thinking of his mother, of Kaze and Yuki, his determination hardened. He owed it to all of them. He owed it to himself.

"Um. . .H-hello." His father pulled back from the embrace as Tim started to speak. Tired eyes, brown to the sky-blue of Tim's own, roved over his face searchingly. Looking, it seemed, for a son, a child, in this thin, long-haired stranger. Tim kept his expression confused, adding a hint of fear and a dash of hope. Neither was forged, but it had been a long time since Tim had worn his emotions openly. It was remarkably difficult. Then Jack spoke, and suddenly it became easy.

"I'm sorry. I'm so sorry, Timmy. You needed me and I wasn't there for you. But why did you run away? What was so bad that you couldn't stay at Brentwood? If they hurt you. . . they didn't did they?" Concern splashed across his father's features, concern and something else. It took Tim a moment to identify it. Guilt. //Why? What does this man possibly have to feel guilty about? The secrets that were forcing us apart were my own, never his. It wasn't his fault that, even protected by ignorance, he couldn't cope with them.// Rallying internally, Tim kept to his script. Allaying his father's concerns was important, but the Batclan's confidentiality was paramount. Once again, the Secret won. Oddly, Tim noticed that he himself felt no regret about that. A faint hint of sadness perhaps, but that was all. //Not knowing keeps you safe, Dad.// Ignorance both of how Tim, as Robin, chose to spend his nights, and also of what had happened in the last few months could only be a blessing to the middle-aged businessman. //Did 'They' hurt me? Dad, you have no idea. And never, ever will, if I have any say in it.//

"I . . .uh, I don't know. I'm sorry sir, but I don't remember."

He hadn't meant to wound his father so deeply. But as he watched the older man's face crumple into misery, Tim realized that his fiction would be harder to perpetrate than he'd ever thought.

"'Sir'. . ." Drake echoed his son's words. Then, visibly pulling himself together, he slung an arm around the thin shoulders in front of him; apparently to reassure himself as much as the other. "We have a lot to talk about, Timmy, and I'm sorry, I forgot about your . . . memory issues. But you only ever called me 'sir' when you were in trouble, so let's not start with that, hey?"

"Uh. Okay." He paused, hating himself but seeing no way around it. //This will hurt him. Hurt both of us.// "But then what would you like me to call you?"

A brief stillness was all the answer he got for a moment, then his father gave a hearty laugh. Perhaps a little too hearty, but none the less an attempt. //Looks like I'm not the only actor here.//

"You used to call me 'Dad'." He said. "Do you think you can still . . .? Or is that what you're calling these wretched 'foster people' of yours?" Tim tensed slightly at the subtle flavor of possessiveness creeping into his father's voice. //I didn't take well to being 'owned' by the Doctor, and I'm not going to put up with it now!// Matching the false pleasantness of his father's tone to his own response, he framed his answer carefully.

"No, _sir_. I address my foster _family_ quite differently." //And I wonder how you'd like it if you found out I call one of them 'Master'. Oh, not the English word for it, but that's still what I call him.//

Grant him credit where it was due, the senior Drake took the hint. Either voice or body language warned him he was venturing onto emotional quicksand and he backpedaled rapidly.

"Dana's looking forward to seeing you, too, you know." He said, moving from one minefield of a topic to another.

"And 'Dana' would be?"

"My wife." Rattled, he turned to the car, waving out the person behind the wheel. Tim had initially thought his father had come in a chauffeured car. That, it seemed, was not the case. //Good. Dana always was better at keeping him on an even keel.//

The door swung open, and the petite brunette bounced out. Tim couldn't help but grin. //Way to go Dana. You're so perfect for him; give him enough space to meet his son, but be ready to step in and save the day when it all goes pie-shaped.//

Again he was enveloped in strong, warm arms, again he was held. Again, he had to remind himself of both the fiction he was creating, and its necessity. //It would have been so much easier if this meeting had been arranged after I got my 'self' back.// But there was no point crying about it; it was water under the bridge. The reunion had been planned while Tim had still been the shattered half-person Van, with no inkling that his semi-miraculous healing was even possible. Now it was just a matter of salvaging the pieces. //And at least this way I don't need to explain where I was for a year. The blanket of 'amnesia' covers all.//

Still, it had to be played right.

"So, you're my mother? You sure look young." He murmured, hating himself again, knowing the answer but at the same time wondering how they would reply.

"No. No, Honey, I'm not your Mom." Dana said gently, still hugging him.

"But I thought Mr. Drake said you were his wife." Tim carefully manufactured a spattering of confusion into his voice.

"I am. I'm your stepmom." Pulling away from him to search his face, Dana none the less held on to his shoulders. Apparently convinced by what she saw, she continued. "I married your father over a year ago now," she said carefully. "You were his Best Man."

"I don't remember."

Her face somber, she nodded. "Yes, we were told that. So it's true." Behind her Jack stirred, not believing – or not wanting to believe – that his presence could be erased so utterly from his own son's life. Tim tensed slightly, sensing the impending explosion from his father, the fight that was brewing. //Just like old times.// Carefully, he kept the thought from showing in his face and body.

Once again, Dana came to the rescue.

"Great! So I can make you sit through the wedding video and all the photo albums without a single complaint!" She chortled, hugging him again, "Oh, this'll be so much fun!" Behind her, Jack groaned slightly, muttering "not again."

And just like that, the tension eased.

"Come on," she said, steering them into the coffee house. "I really need some tea."

They were seated, and had ordered, before the difficult questions arose again. With a glance at her husband, Dana took the lead.

"I know you don't remember me, either of us, really. And I know you've carved out a life for yourself now after something that must have been truly horrible happened to you," She paused, obviously taking the time to choose her words carefully. Mentally Tim congratulated her insight //Something 'truly horrible' indeed. You've been reading up, Dana. I can tell. You always get that little furrow-line in your brow when you're working with new concepts. Given where this conversation is going, I'm betting you found yourself a psychology text book and discovered that non-organic amnesia is most often a psychological defense against some truly hideous emotional trauma. And since the Supercycle cleaned off all my visible scars when it healed me, you're making an educated guess that it's not an organic injury.// Her conclusions couldn't, in this case, have been more wrong, but Tim gave her points for trying. It wasn't exactly like kidnapping and Apokalyps and New Genesis-derived brainwashing was particularly run-of-the-mill, even in superhero-circles. Tim shifted his attention back onto what Dana was saying.

"So I wanted to say a few things: The first is that I am so very, truly sorry. We should have been there. We should have been contactable. We weren't and with that we failed you. I am so sorry." She stopped to draw a breath to continue, obviously not really expecting an answer. Tim decided to give her one anyway. Her, and his father. Maybe he couldn't appease their guilt entirely, but he could ease it. Though they'd been absent, it hadn't been anything they'd done that had gotten him kidnapped. That fault, he felt, lay with the Doctor, and maybe with himself; he'd set it in train when as a preadolescent detective, he'd first deduced Batman's identity. When he'd become Robin, and drawn the Doctor's fateful attention. But Tim knew that being Robin was worth it.

Perhaps he and his parents would still be estranged now anyway; given that the two of them had been uncontactable for the better part of a year - and entirely by their own doing - it didn't seem implausible. But perhaps not. The doctor had taken that possibility away from them as a family, and it was more than Tim could stand to watch the two of them shoulder the misplaced responsibility.

"That's okay. No, really it is," he said earnestly, looking at the doubt flickering in both their faces. "You asked me earlier, sir, if they'd hurt me." He directed the comment to Jack. "The answer is, I don't know. I don't remember." //Not entirely true, but at least it wasn't the Brentwood people who were doing the hurting. And I don't think you could – or should – cope with what really happened. Another little secret. I'm collecting them, it seems.//

"You tell me that I ran away. Not from you, I take it, as you've both said you weren't there, but from some school you put me in. I don't remember that, either. So I don't know why I left. Until today, I didn't even realize that I had run away." He paused then, deciding how to take the next part of the conversation.

//I want to have contact with you, I want to spend time together. But I won't leave Gotham to live with you in Metropolis. And the sooner I establish that, hurt feelings or not, the better.// And it would hurt. He could tell. His father would be ruffled, but it would be Dana who would truly bear the pain. She'd always been so careful about not getting between Tim and his Dad. How now would she cope with the feeling that it was her, or more specifically her honeymoon that had created the final split. //Better to be ruthless now, than live building more lies than I have to.// Steeling himself, Tim continued. It was hard, harder than fighting any number of Gotham crooks, and it hurt him as much as some of the earlier sessions with the Doctor.

"I don't know where I ended up for the first few months, either, but I do know that if it hadn't happened, and I hadn't been on that street, then my family wouldn't have found me." He smiled at them, then, and it wasn't a forgery. Just thinking of the Shishou, of Kaguya and of Yuki and Kaze, the hotch-potch kin he would never have had, and of Bruce and Dick, Barbara and Cassandra, the motley family he was proud to belong to. //No, the cost in pain for me was never too high. To have that, the cost was bearable.//

"So I guess what I'm trying to say is 'Thanks'." He continued, "True, I don't remember what came before, but maybe that's for the best if it was as bad as you seem to think it might have been. And besides, what I have now is so very precious. My family, my life." His smile deepened. "If you'd not put me in the school you say I ran away from, I would have missed out on the lot of it. So there's nothing to apologize about, but lots of things to accept my gratitude for."

Across the table from him, Jack had been going alternate shades of anger-red, and then a sallow, grim white. His mouth opened, but no words issued forth. A quick glance at him, and Dana leapt in to commandeer the conversation.

"We. . . We'd both. . . That is, we're glad you're happy. And I realize we have no right to force ourselves on you," she started, gently.

"The Hell we don't! You're my son!" Jack snarled, "I'll find this Casey family and I'll-" He was quieted by Dana's had on his arm. Or his own apoplexy. Either way, Tim was glad to see it was his stepmother who continued.

"We left you alone, even if that's not how we saw it at the time. You were in trouble, and we left, but you fended for yourself admirably. You say now that there's no apology needed, but I feel there is, so please accept it. I'm also going to be very selfish and ask if there's any way you'd be willing to have us back in your life." She took a tremulous breath, the hope and fear naked on her face, and just as present on Jack's though he hid it beneath bluster.

"You don't have to ask him that, Dana," Jack started, "Of course Tim's going to come back with us! He'll just say the word to the custody judge, and we'll get him enrolled in Metropolis Prep, pay off these fosterers if they make a fuss, and then Tim can . . ."

"That isn't my name, _sir_." Tim said in a quiet, steely voice. Jack Drake flinched. Tim had been prepared for this development, had played it out multiple ways in his head. Had even been ready to 'suddenly remember everything' if things had gone right and he could have done so without losing his autonomy. But that, it was abundantly apparent, was not possible. So he played it to his worst-case scenario. He played it to total amnesia.

Silence greeted his pronouncement. His father looked ready to explode. Tim met his father's glare with his own suddenly-glacial eyes. The elder was the first to look away.

"I'm sorry," Dana said again, relentlessly crashing the conversation back on track. Once more, Tim had to admire her for it. //No wonder things improved so much when she started living in.// "That was thoughtless of me. I should have considered that, what with the amnesia and all. Let's try again. I'm your stepmother. You used to call me 'Dana', and I'd really like it if you feel you could do so again."

Taking the hand she proffered over the table, Tim shook it, a grin cracking his features at the sudden over-played formality. An answering twinkle sparkled in her own eyes; relief and hope. They'd gotten through Jack's social-shattering bluster phase intact.

"My name is Van, Dana. And it's a pleasure to meet you. Perhaps you can help me with how to address your husband. He seems uncomfortable with 'sir' and I'm uncomfortable with 'Dad'. Can you suggest a compromise?"

"I usually call him 'Jack'. Would that be okay?" She looked to both of them. Suddenly deflating, Jack matched Tim's nod with his own.

"Despite how it was phrased, Jack's offer is real: We'd love to have you come to Metropolis with us."

"Thank you for the offer," Tim said formally, his tone giving them ample warning of what was coming. "But I won't leave Gotham." Unspoken, the other half of the sentence was not unfelt; _I won't leave Gotham, and I won't leave my family. _He broke the atmosphere with a sunny smile, "I'm happy here. I'm with people who care about me, and I can promise you, whatever Brentwood was like for me, I'm doing well in my current school."

Across from him, Dana was doing her best to hide her upset and smile back at him. //Sorry, Dana. I know you wanted a happy ending; the prodigal son come home and all that, but I can't deliver. Not in Metropolis, and maybe not even in Gotham.//

"Can we still see you? We'll come here, or will you visit us? You could stay on weekends," she said hesitantly, "if you wanted. . .?"

He grinned at her, "I'd like that." Something in the grin seemed to spark her confidence, for suddenly the chatty, caring confidante Tim remembered was back.

"Great! Your room's ready for you, whenever you want to come." She squeezed his hand. "And there's a great running trail in the park behind the house. We can jog together again." She looked at him mock-severely, "But I won't go easy on you just because you've had a break from running. I _am_ a physiotherapist, you know." Tim grinned back. She'd never twigged that, in all their jogs, it had been _him_ going easy with _her. _He'd always done their runs after his own rigorous workout, to ensure that he was truly sweaty by the time she 'caught up to him' after his head start, but this was his first indication that she'd had as much fun running together as he had.

//And a very subtle way of giving the amnesiac some information about your job, without sitting down and running through every detail of life. Nicely done.//

"We'll go fishing," Jack chimed in unexpectedly. "Like when you were a kid. It'll be good fun." Tim smiled, touched to see his father truly making an effort. "Have a man's weekend, and leave both the girls at home."

"Both the girls?" Tim asked, innocently. The pause that followed was slightly awkward.

"Yes," Jack said. "Dana and your baby sister." Both watched him carefully. Internally, Tim shrugged. If they'd expected him to get upset about a sibling who'd serve a nice double duty as a distraction if and when he chose to go roof-hopping in Big Blue's territory, then they had another think coming.

"I look forward to meeting your baby girl." Neither Jack nor Dana missed his phrasing. They noted the sentiment, a subtle reinforcement that he didn't remember them, didn't really consider them parents or hence the baby his sister. The foundations of this new relationship were set; Tim needed now to merely continue refining them.

They talked on, well into the afternoon and pausing only for a sandwich-dinner from the coffeehouse menu. Catching up, learning about each other, trying to reform the fragments of the family bond that had once held them. It was only much later, when Jack and Dana had returned the rental car, clambered on board the train to Metropolis for the return journey, and settled into their first-class seats that they realized how little about himself and his current life Tim – Van – had actually told them.

They didn't even know the name of his school. And of his foster-family, they were no better informed than they had been when the day had started; the Caseys. Whom Van apparently cherished unreservedly, and whom the Mireba Corporation valued enough to protect from any custody court battle.

A family that Robin, taking to the rooftops that night, was determined to track down.

Although he made a start, it would be some time before he got the chance to complete his self-designated mission.

Gotham, as always a tempermental mistress, intervened.


	3. Chapter 3

Aftermath.

Chapter 3

Disclaimer: The characters portrayed herein belong to DC comics. This is a subsidiary of AOL-TimeWarner. Neither of these august bodies is me. I am writing purely for my own entertainment, and posting in the hope of entertaining others. No commercial gain is being made from this fanfic, but C+C would be highly welcomed.

Tim – Robin – leapt and bounded over the rooftops with a joyous, gleeful abandon. It was night, a rainy afternoon had washed the superficial grime off of the city and, while this made certain hand and foot holds treacherously slippery, Robin felt it was a fair payoff: Gotham, under her grit and pollution, gleamed like an uncut gem. The sea breeze from the docks wafted over him, bringing with it salty tang, and the spice of more rain to come.

Gotham was home.

Friends, team-mates . . . family. All were centered around Gotham, even if they weren't out together: Nightwing had wandered back down to Bludhaven to break up a drug ring (Blockbuster had been diversifying his enterprises again), and Batgirl was currently trashing the Iceberg lounge (he'd been listening in over the headset speakers, and it seemed likely the long-suffering Penguin would start squawking soon enough; the money paid to him to keep quiet about the now-defunct methamphetamine refinery supplying the Bludhaven ring would very shortly cease to cover the cost of damages to his beloved nightclub. Even for Blockbuster). The thought made Robin grin toothily. While she was supremely capable of inflicting damage with surgical precision, Batgirl was equally adept at generating substantial collateral property destruction should she so choose. And it certainly sounded like she was letting loose.

His headset crackled to life, bringing with it Barbara's voice, concern laced through her words: Batman was breaking up a kidnapping ring. Without a pause, Robin jackknifed his body mid-air and changed direction. While always controlled, Batman had taken to shutting down kidnapping and white slavery with an ever so slightly vicious edge. //I guess he has reason to.// Robin thought. //But _I'm _that reason, so _I'm_ the one who has to make sure it never pushes him too far.//

In the end, it was fortunate Robin came for other reasons. Nearly a hundred of them, in fact. He flowed through them with ease. They were thugs, not soldiers, and certainly not warriors. Dependent on their numbers and their attitude for their effectiveness, they were nonetheless too dumb to know when they were outclassed. But having both himself and Batman there was valuable; the children that had been snatched from the streets, from clubs, in a couple of cases while walking home from school, were filthy and unfed, dehydrated and scared. Certainly not in much shape to protect themselves, though one of them, with supreme courage, smashed a wooden plank over the head of one of her tormentors when he threatened the boy beside her during the fight. So Batman ranged wide, picking off the gangbangers at the margins while Robin, less frightening to the people they'd come to rescue than the Bat could ever hope to be, placed himself in the thick of it, between the victims and their abductors. It stopped them from using the kids as hostages in the fight. It also meant that Robin bore the more desperate of the attacks, which suited him. //Batman's perspective in kidnapping cases is a little skewed// punch-jab-kick //So's mine, I guess, but less so.//

He avoided seriously injuring them with deceptive ease, taking them down with a single blow there, a two-hit combination here. It was over quickly.

But it was observed.

Picking the lock on the shackles that bound the kids ankle-to-ankle, Robin sensed it. Glancing up quickly, he was just in time to see a flicker of cape disappearing through the skylight he and Batman had entered. A nod from his partner – who had also seen the movement – and Robin leapt off in pursuit, swarming up the walls and support pillars, finding hand and footholds where there seemed none. On his headset, he could hear Oracle summoning police for the kidnappers, ambulances for the children. . . They were not seriously hurt, but he admired her foresight.

There was no one on the roof. A rapid, but very thorough search of the surrounds yielded nobody, and no hiding places, unless. . . there. In the alley beside the warehouse, a patch of dryness despite the light drizzle that had fallen while he and Batman were inside. //So he left in a car. Whever 'he' or 'she' or 'they' were.// The warehouse was just off a major road. //So they'll just blend into the traffic.// There was no way of tracking them now, and Robin bit his lip in concern.

//Whoever this was, they're either very lucky, or they have a very good assessment of both Batman's and my agility to successfully plan that getaway.// Neither thought was particularly comforting.

The wail of approaching sirens interrupted his thoughts, and he free-climbed back up to the rooftop, leaping from handhold to foothold with graceful aplomb. Casting around the roof in the moments he had left, he memorized the scene. //Something here may help me later to determine who that person was.// A few strands of fabric – barely more than threads – caught his eye. Reaching across to grab them from the jutting tangle of junked scapmetal they'd obviously snagged on, he realised they were dry. //Sloppy, whoever you are, either that, or a deliberate feint.// Carefully, he tucked them into an evidence bag and then into his belt. Below him, he saw the shadows roil and move. //That would be Batman making his departure//.

As the first police car pulled up, Robin elected to do the same.


	4. Chapter 4

Aftermath IV

Disclaimer: The characters portrayed herein belong to DC comics, AOL Time Warner and whomever else. Not myself, unfortunately. If it were up to me, Damian would have long since got a good swift kick up the backside, though I must qualify that by saying that the cliffhanger of Detective 838 was the best bit of suspense I've seen come out of DC for some time.

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She hadn't forgiven.

She certainly hadn't forgotten. Murder has a way of staying with you, she'd discovered in the long years since the first time she'd experienced its effects in her life. A harsh, insistent mistress, one who demanded the homage of thought, of reflection, every day.

And of response, if not revenge, every night.

To be fair, while exacting, the memory of murder did allow some leeway. For one thing, she'd noted, there was the element of proximity; while nightly or near-nightly terrors haunted her few, scarce hours of sleep, they universally featured her immediate family. Those individuals who had been gunned down around her as they sat, sharing a meal.

Mother. Father. Brother.

Spare the sister.

A mistake that had saved her life, even as it erased her mother's existence.

A mistake whose repercussions had folded back upon the man who had ordered the hit, pounding him mercilessly with the savagery of absolute, poetic Justice. Had it been as he intended, had her mother, not herself, been spared . . . who knew?

The loss of a child does strange things to the mind, she'd observed during her contact with the other members of the Batclan. Especially to one who feels loss so keenly as the Bat.

A photographic and eidetic memory had to have some disadvantages, she supposed.

She wondered if his twilight terrors matched her own, if his few short, snatched hours of sleep were as riddled with anguish, despair and misery as those she partook of.

She wondered if, unlike her own, they ever marched with the army of those he could not save, but had not seen destroyed.

She hoped not. It was not something she'd wish on anyone.

She had had more than enough experience of that particular brand of skeleton hanging in her own walk-in wardrobe to hold any doubt that the Batman's closet of bones would dwarf her own.

But the auxillary ghosts who could have marshaled themselves against her had been quiescent for some time, seemingly content to leave their labour of torment to the spectre of her family.

Until that night.

The night when one of the Bat's Spring Birds, the latest little Robin, had floated through his opponents to rescue her. And while doing so, had used techniques that she'd only ever heard whispers of, in quiet and awed voices, among the Five Families.

The obscenity of the symbol of hope calmly enacting some of the worlds most effective murder techniques had struck a shard of ice into her heart, even as it forced her bile to rise.

He'd not killed a soul.

But he knew exactly how to.

He knew the techniques that had 'made an example' of her cousin Sal and uncle Coli, in their high security cell of the highest security prison in Sicily.

She had, fortunately, not needed to rely on any skills in the digital arena to obtain the autopsy reports of her cousin and uncle. Sicily was not without technology, but equal parts reverence for tradition and the inertia of a public government had seen the files on the murder of her cousin and uncle remain in the traditional white filing boxes in a central police station. Stealing them had been an afternoon's work, returning them after she made her own copies less than that.

Realistically, she doubted anyone would have cared had she kept them. After all, to most, what was one or two less Mafia hitmen in the world, if not a good thing?

Especially after a conviction for mass murder.

Back when they had been killed – murdered - she had not been required to identify the corpses. That had been her aunt's duty, and in then end, her aunt's destruction.

Oh, the corpses weren't particularly defiled, but the vision of one's own husband and son dead had done little for the poor woman's mind. Reclusive and broken, Antonia had died not long after.

'Not defiled', however, had not meant merely killed. The pattern of wounds marking their prized servants' bodies, distinctive and pronounced, had all but trumpeted a challenge to the Family. 'Come,' the wounds had mockingly said, 'try and stop us, with your guns and your bullets and your Omerta. Come and fight, if you dare. You have lost only foot soldiers now, but we can go anywhere, kill anyone.' The Asano family were respected, but not preeminent. Their murder was a statement of intent, but not an overt declaration of war on the Families. 'You can back out now, with no loss of face. Or you can acknowledge us, stand up to those who can send an assassin undetected into the securest site in your own country, and fight us.'

The Family had opted for the first option. They had ceded to the Yakuza exactly what they wanted, and watched gleefully as shortly thereafter the loose conglomeration of different Yakuza groups had appeared to tear itself apart after an explosion in one of their strongholds.

Of the assassin, the one whose name was whispered in fear, but never spoken aloud, nothing further was known.

The Crimson had vanished in the hail of fire that had marked that destruction, the loss of a fortress and, for one clan, almost total dissolution. The other Yakuza had greedily swallowed up the pieces.

Helena Bertinelli knew exactly how that felt.

It was widely assumed, as weeks and months passed into years, and further assassinations, while efficient enough, displayed neither the subtlety of entrance nor the panache of technique, that the Crimson had died in that blast, his murderous abilities passing with him.

And then, on that rooftop, to save her from the KGBeast, a tiny Robin of spring had flown with the skill of a Crimson, techniques modified into non-lethal, though still elegant, efficiency; the two halves of the Bo staff dancing through the motions of the kata with as much grace as the katana and wakizashi that they had been originally intended for. The same force, the same skill, but this time to subdue rather than destroy.

That night, and for weeks to follow, Helena Bertinelli, Huntress, shared her nightmares with the specters of her cousin and uncle.

Until she'd decided to do something about it.

Tailing the Bat and his squire had not proven easy, but she was becoming desperate. Robin had answers. And they were answers she needed. Batman, after careful evaluation, did not. The style of The Crimson was too different to his own, too dependent on weapons. She'd seen Gotham's knight swing a sword to offer Wonder Woman a sparring partner during her brief time with the JLA. While efficient, he lacked the artistry of the Crimson. A master martial artist, he was neither limited nor, tellingly, defined by the sword.

He was not the murderer of her cousin.

Robin wasn't either. She realised that. But he'd certainly had contact with the legendary assassin. And been in a position to benefit from the other's teaching, which led to some rather unpleasant conclusions. She knew that Shiva had claimed to have taught him briefly, and that Batman did not seem to have an issue with a self-avowed 'goddess' of destruction and murder leaving her mark on his protégé. Why not, then, the assassin known both for cunning, guile, and undisputed, efficient cruelty as well?

Shiva had failed to bewitch the young Robin, but had the Crimson found in him an heir?

To teach the young Robin, the Crimson would have had to have survived his supposed destruction all those years ago. How could she stand by and allow such an evil to continue? Could it be merely that Robin had learned from the assassin and moved on? Perhaps he could even lead her to her cousin's murderer.

But if Robin, had taken more than just lessons of technique to heart, if he was the next Crimson, then Helena would mourn the loss of the cheerful, friendly young boy she considered the most rational of the Batclan.

Helena would mourn, but Huntress would see to his total destruction.

That was Omerta.

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NOTE: Helena's early history and the finer details of her cousin's career as a Mafia hit man comes from the six part miniseries 'Huntress: Cry for Blood' by Greg Rucka and Rick Burchett.

C+C greatly appreciated 


	5. Chapter 5

Aftermath V

Okay, firstly, the climate control is broken so it's 40 degrees and showing no signs of cooling; second, I've finished 'Partial Pressure Of Oxygen' but, like a reasonable amount of my stuff, it's turned out a little too geeky-science-obsessed to be posted; and thirdly, instead of having nightmares about exams I'm waking up in a flap because my charming subconscious has elected to produce Kobolds. And, before you ask, no pharmaceuticals, recreational or otherwise, were involved. Yuck.

On the plus side, I guess, this means I return my wandering attention to "Aftermath" as my current level of ire isn't high enough for me to attempt to tackle The Great Fix-Leslie's-Character-Assassination Crusade, and my current level of consciousness isn't high enough for me to attempt more study, but I'm not bloody turning the light off anytime soon.

Kobolds. Go figure.

Ahem. None of the characters portrayed herein belong to me, except for the ones I invented. As this is posted on a DC comics fansite, presumably most casual readers know which is which. Please don't use my originals without asking; I'd be terribly flattered and probably say 'yes', but I do have certain . . . plans . . . for them.

Furthermore, if you're reading chapter 5, then by now you know this AU. Summaries for earlier stories can be found at the start of their sequels. Thanks for sticking it out with me.

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His lips pursed into an unconscious pout as he leaned back from one of several high-powered microscopes in the Batcave, Robin mulled over his find.

Outside of the superhero – and supervillain – community, spandex was generally considered a slightly unorthodox choice for regular workwear, and when used at all it was typically a blended fibre, one mixed with cotton or wool. Within the community it, and it's cousin lycra, were uniform standards. If mixed at all it was typically with nomex, for fire protection, or Kevlar, for a degree of bulletproofing. Personally, Robin preferred his recently upgraded ceramic plates to Kevlar; knives went through woven fabric relatively easily, and the fish-scale overlap of the plates in his uniform spread the impact of most regular bullet rounds without sacrificing flexibility. Plus they were somewhat heat repellant. _Not quite up there with the tiles on a space shuttle, but not bad, either. Alfred's done well._ Even so, the armor was covered with a spandex-nomex mix. That allowed circuitry to be embedded, and hid the fact that the Robin-suit was reinforced at all.

The fibres currently sandwiched onto a glass slide were spandex. Pure, unmixed spandex.

Still, that alone didn't rule out a bystander. Some innocent jogger, perhaps, one with pride in their physique – justified or not – might wear spandex. But when teamed with other circumstantial evidence, however, things became more telling; he'd collected the fibres from the _rooftop_ of a supposedly abandoned warehouse. The warehouse, in a less than salubrious part of town, had been the hideout of a gang of kidnappers. _Any joggers – on the roof or not – would want to be pretty darn quick in __**that**__ part of town._ Robin grinned without humour.

He'd seen a flash of purple cape through the skylight, its owner in the process of fleeing.

The fibres, when backlit, were a peculiarly brilliant purple shade.

Spoiler might almost call it eggplant.

He grinned to himself, contemplating confronting the other teenager. Just as quickly, he dismissed the idea that the fibres might belong to her. _She's been with the Batclan for over a year; her costumes have been revamped - though not redesigned - four, no,_ he checked the files, _five times since then. Given how Batman feels about protecting his protégés. . . A-ha! There. She's been upgraded from her original spandex to spandex-nomex-kevlar for the bodysuit, and Kevlar-ceramic plating for the cape._ Cross-referencing the dates, Robin found it unlikely any of Spoiler's old, hand-sewn uniforms persisted. _She declined the plate armoring. Wonder why? They're not __**that**__ much harder to get into or out of. Ah. But they're a lot harder for __**Connor**__ to get her out of them._ The thought of his ex-girlfriend with another – and going a lot further than he himself had managed - didn't bother him half as much as he'd imagined it would, given his restoration of self. Briefly, Robin contemplated that before shrugging it off as a minor blessing. _I've enough issues without looking for extras._ With a bit of luck, and a lot of work, he and Spoiler would manage to be friends again. _Despite a betrayal of identity, a year of torture, and a number of spats in the interim._

Armed with a digital photograph thoughtfully printed out from the microscope's camera, he fed the shade into the Crays' mighty search engines. A flick of the fingers, and resolution, amplification, and even the wattage of the light source used to examine the fibrous evidence was added. _All matches, please,_ he touched the search button, commending the fabric to an archive rivaling – and exceeding – that of a number of international forensic organizations. He paused, weighing up the benefits of proceeding straight to gas chromatography while the microscopy ran, decided against it. _Once I burn that sample, that's it. I want to make sure there's no problem with microscopy before I do anything._

He doubted there'd be a match with much of Gotham's criminal society; _For example,_ _Catwoman doesn't wear a cape, Joker's suits are typically silk or polyester, and R'as al Ghul, while not above wearing a mantle, has a marked fondness for green._ Still, an import was not impossible. _And any mercenary will go where the money is._

There was no way to hurry the computer's search, so Robin moved to the practice mat. Katas would help him work out the kinks in his shoulders, and the concentration needed for them would free the current of his thoughts. With a shrug, he started barehanded.

It did not take long for the whirl and flow of hands and feet to settle his mind into a relaxed, yet still aware, martial trance. In this, even more than usual, he could understand Batgirl's point of view entirely; a swing and a thrust became as erudite a question or comment as any verbal enunciation could ever be. Violence might be spoken by thugs, but so was English. And as with English, there was a difference between the crude obscenities of street-talk and the poetry of Milton or wordsmithery of Shakespeare.

So many questions. So very many questions. Without even being really aware of it, Robin spun to the weapons display case, his movements flowing like water. A graceful, if not particularly dramatic, block-and-punch combination was seamlessly converted into a grasp, and suddenly he was holding an elegant black _daisho_ set. The blades were 'live'; sharpened to whisper-fine edges. While Batman might eschew guns and blades, he had made very certain that all his protégés, from an early stage, were comfortable and at least passably competent with their use.

Robin was substantially better than 'passably' competent. Whirling, leaping and slicing with the elegance of a dance, he sliced his way through the sword Katas the Shishou had taught him. They weren't showy - or at least not deliberately so - but they were, it was gorgeously, breathtakingly apparent, utterly deadly. More so than he'd ever appreciated before. But, while they helped him to ask questions, to reconstruct 'conversations' with his otherworldly mentor, they offered no answers save one.

More and more, Robin became certain that Huntress' furious allegations on the rooftop some nights ago, so stunningly out of place after his rescue of her from KGBeast, were not without at least some basis worthy of investigation.

With a slight frown, and what might have been construed as a flourish had he not known it was a move designed to flick the gore of battle from the longer of the two currently bloodless blades, Robin re-sheathed the weapons. He wasn't even breathing heavily.

None of the Shishou's katas were flashy or dramatic. There was no theatre to the way the weapons moved, only deadly efficiency. They were the moves of a warrior, not a showman. Lethal, yes, but could they be the 'language' of an assassin?

A smattering of applause greeted him from one of the monitors. He blinked. Oracle had apparently tuned in via one of the roving cameras. He wasn't particularly surprised; when he ran the fabric search, he'd authorized the Crays to cross-reference Oracle's systems for information. As a courtesy, his searches through her system usually triggered a 'ping' to let her know. Usually. _Batman never 'knocks', which_ _makes it easier to deny I've been using her system when I don't knock, when I don't want her to know what I've been toying with. _ There was no point hiding the current search; both she and Batman were aware of the rooftop audience to the bust, and all three had a vested interest in finding out who their 'fan' was. Both his mentor and colleague had been more than happy to allow Tim to do the preliminary analysis.

The last time he'd gone for digital B and E rather than 'knocking' had been after loading the bogus material concerning his own death. He'd wanted to alter Oracle's general search parameters to make sure the information didn't surface top of the list of any search she ran herself. It had worked, and she'd suspected nothing until the PI, Jason Bard, had requested Tim's 'autopsy' report several months later. _Which started the whole mess with my father._

Tim sighed. In retrospect, the meeting with his father had been organised prematurely. Had they waited, even another week or two, Robin could well have been fully healed, back to himself. _But 'if onlys' get me nowhere._ _While I probably would still have been there, I could just as likely not have ended up not trying to kill myself at the stadium, and then where would I be? Still fractured? Under Ras Al Ghul's control?_ He shied away from the thought.At any rate, the 'courtesy call' he'd logged as he accessed her system had apparently translated into an offer for her to 'phone' back. He felt irrationally pleased; Barbara, with her level-headedness and wealth of both information and experience, could be good to talk to.

"Hey Short Stuff, looking good." She was cheerful, her voice only slightly wistful as she remembered her own days of free movement. "You're fast as anything with those blades, faster even than the footage I have of Shiva." Robin grinned without humour. The world saw Shiva as an assassin, she saw herself as a warrior. _Doesn't exactly inform my line of enquiry about Kaguya or the Shishou, though it does make me keen to pursue it_. That was as good a segue as any into a topic that had been eating at him._ Perhaps I should not be asking 'Shishou, where are you? When are you coming back?' But 'Shishou, what are you doing? What __**were**__ you doing?' _

"I don't know about 'fast as anything', Babs. I suspect the Flashes would have something to say about that."

"Meh. We could take 'em."

He grinned, this time with genuine humour, at her bravado.

"So . . ." She paused delicately, "Why playing around with blades? Not planning on changing your image or anything?"

"Why? You think the red and green's passé?"

"Nah. Some things never go out of fashion."

"Tell that to the pixies boots and hotpants!"

"Touche. But seriously, Tim. . ."

"Seriously, Babs, no, I'm not. Take a bladed weapon into a fight, and it'll get used, whether or not that's the intention. If it gets used, the risks of it being lethal or crippling are a lot higher than those of a Bo staff. So I'm good. I'll stay as I am, thanks."

He politely pretended not to hear her almost-sigh of relief. He figured it was fair enough; over the past few months he'd given his 'family' more than their fair share of grief when it came to second-guessing just what was going on in his scrambled mind.

"It was just . . ." She was embarrassed now, so he came to her rescue.

"It just helps me think. I guess. For this case, anyway." Turning towards the main banks of screens, he was gratified to see her face flash up on one of the subsidiary monitors. Her actual face, not the Oracle masque he was getting used to seeing every time Spoiler was in the cave.

" 'Case?' Investigating your stalker counts as a case? Boy, Bats needs to let you play more often." Unspoken, but not unfelt, was the comfortable certainty that, now, it would be possible for Robin to do so.

And 'possible' in the Batclan usually turned into 'happening'.

"No, not really, but it's something to look into." He grimaced to himself. Let Babs think he was investigating only at Batman's behest, that the stalker on the roof was the only point of interest for him at the moment. She knew better, of course; no member of the Batfamily had _that _much of a one track mind that only one task at a time could be handled, even if they were all frighteningly good at prioritizing. But the polite fiction could be maintained.

"Ah. Looks like your stalker is a lot closer to home than you'd think." She said, as an alarm flashed on the console behind her. Seconds later, the Crays' main screen, too, read 'search completed'.

"One of my own operatives, actually. And it's not surprising she left before speaking to you guys. Things with Batman have been a bit . . . strained."

Robin nodded uneasily. The fibres did indeed seem likely to come from the superhero community. Ninety-seven percent likely, in fact.

"Yeah. Huntress."

"So. Case closed. She was patrolling – like Batman _doesn't_ like her doing. She found the warehouse, hung around to make sure you guys were okay, and then left before she and Batman could do the big confrontation."

"So it would seem." _Assuming it was coincidence._ It probably was, he knew. _But I have enough other questions to ask Huntress that this makes a trip out to her apartment well worth my while._

Glancing at the clock, he knew it would have to wait. Dawn was approaching, and it was a school day.

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A bit of pseudo-forensics in this one ('Pseudo' because, let's face it; a couple of read-throughs of 'The Marks of Cain', 'Dead Men Tell Tales' and 'Proof of Poison' hardly qualifies me to comment on the veracity of Robin's detective technique – especially since I made it up myself, and anyway all three books use case studies that pre-date gas chromatography and electron microscopy.)

While we'll all have to make do with katas and dialogue this time, I've a reasonable amount of punch-up planned for next chapter.

I'm experimenting a bit in this one, I know. Liked it? Hated it? More detecting details? Less? Feedback greatly appreciated; C&C will be fed Cookies and Chocolate.


	6. Chapter 6

There are any number of things a tired vigilante can reasonably expect to find when they return home after a whirlwind round-the-world tour (of duty) of some of the hottest crime spots on the planet

Disclaimer: The characters portrayed within this chapter belong to DC comics, which is a subdivision of AOL Time Warner. Which is to say, not me. They are being used for entertainment purposes only, and I for one am certainly getting no financial renumeration from playing with them.

There are any number of things a tired vigilante can reasonably expect to find when they return home after a whirlwind round-the-world tour (of duty) of some of the hottest crime spots on the planet. Backed up mail spilling from the letterbox is almost a given, unless the CIA has become interested in their activities. Bad milk in the fridge is typically a universal constant, too. Reproachful pets tend not to be an issue; the vigilantes who have them are often pointedly devoted to them, so they're typically awaiting collection from other friends' homes, farms, or Fortresses of Solitude. Rarely, a spouse, partner or other loved one is ready to welcome them with open arms, but a disproportionately high number of vigilantes – as opposed to superheroes _per se_ - are single, which probably says more about the lifestyle than anything else, really.

It was the latter part of early morning when a dirty, tired, but satisfied Huntress slipped down a cable from the stealth helicopter hovering above her, landing softly on the rooftop. She waved a goodbye to the pilot she could no longer see, but easily imagined the chirpy blonde firing off her typical half-wave, half-salute as the chopped drifted away under her deft guidance. Of all the things Helena Bertinelli expected to find when she arrived home, the most important – she hoped – was that Oracle had remembered to pay her hot water bill. A hot shower sounded like heaven after that last stop in slums of Delhi to crack a white slavery ring. . .

The teenage boy was perched above the air conditioning outflow vent next to the roof access, watching her progress with what had to be puppy-dog eyes behind that opaque mask. Utterly non-threatening, he looked like nothing so much as a young stray bundled into a blanket of a cloak.

She lashed out with a roundhouse kick, followed rapidly by an uppercut and a mean left cross, cursing the fact that her crossbow was still holstered on her thigh.

Not a single blow landed. Robin unfolded as gracefully as a flung bolt of silk, rippling past her strikes with ease though he made no move to launch a counter attack.

Rolling back towards the edge of the rooftop, Huntress pulled her bow. She still had a few quarrels left after pinning the arms dealer to the wall in Bangkok, and after that there were always the throwing knives. . .

"Huntress, please, I didn't come to fight!"

"No, you came to kill me! To finish off what your assassin teacher started with my family!" More tired than she'd care to admit, Huntress snarled the accusation that had been gestating slowly in the back of her mind throughout her trip with the Birds of Prey. Heedless of tact or caution, she flung it like a weapon at the boy she'd once considered the most approachable of the cliquish Batclan. The evidence – his own abilities – was irrefutable. He'd been trained by The Crimson. Her cousin and uncle had been killed by The Crimson. End of story, right?

He caught two of the quarrels she fired, evading the third by a whisper of fletching as it shot past him. Huntress growled deep in her throat, pulling the knives as Robin walked forward noiselessly, implacably, ghosting along on the balls of his feet. He had not yet moved to an offensive stance, was holding his arms out in a conciliatory gesture as he moved . . . so easily, so gracefully. Dropping into a defensive pose, Helena briefly wondered if the Asaros had felt so utterly helpless before his predecessor. /But I'm not going down without a fight!/

"Actually, I came to ask for your help." He paused, offering her a chance to reply as if they were sitting having a polite conversation over a cup of coffee as opposed to brawling on a rooftop. She ignored the opening. The taser needed a second or so to prep, and so she armed it, hoping the slight whine of the building charge wouldn't be noticed by her opponent.

Robin sighed. "Look, if it makes you feel better to shock me into unconsciousness before you let me in, that's fine. But it won't change the fact that we need to talk."

"There's nothing to say!" So the taser might not work as a surprise weapon, but if he was serious then she could leave him bound and hanging from a gargoyle while she ran for it. Alternatively . . .

"Actually, there's lots. And a fair bit of it's already been said by Oracle. She trusts you implicitly." Huntress took his words as an opportunity to launch a sneak attack. Distracting him with the knives in one hand, she concentrated the charge onto knuckles of the other glove. If she could just hit him with it . . .

He stepped easily out of reach of the charged hand, and a heartbeat later the knives had joined the arrows on the ground between them. He'd disarmed her and she hadn't even seen him move. Again, he took a non-threatening stance, and just as before Huntress wasn't fooled. /He moved before I could see it!/ The corollary of that was a little too depressing for her to acknowledge. /If he wanted me dead, I would be./ The taser was, she noted, still charged. Whatever he'd done to take the knives hadn't earthed it.

"What do you want?!"

"In general? World peace. From you? Information." Purposefully, Robin kept his tone light. /She's overtired, scared and knows she's outclassed. I need to make sure she doesn't feel cornered./ "You've got a copy of the Asaro files. I'd like to see them."

"Why? Trying to mimic your teacher?"

"No. Just trying to find him. And the Asaros are his only independently-confirmed kills." Robin decided to offer at least some information to the agitated vigilante. If nothing else, it might go some way towards gaining her trust, and while he could just as easily have stolen the files, he preferred not to tick off one of Oracle's operatives. /Babs can be very . . . 'creative' in her vengeance. And she's already spoiling for a fight after she found out I poisoned and then duped her while creating my 'Van Casey' identity./

"Why do you want to do that?" She was still suspicious, but he could see the tension easing slightly from her shoulders.

"Let's just say I have questions for him."

"You and the rest of the world." She looked at him searchingly.

"Helena, please." He knew instantly he'd said the wrong thing.

"Don't call me that!" mad, she swung out with the uncharged fist, a vicious haymaker she'd learned from Canary. To her surprise it landed, snapping Robin's head around and knocking him to the ground, blood trickling from a split lip. He'd rolled with it, but not completely.

That alone cleared her mind from the haze of fear and fatigue. While she hated the idea of her identity so readily available to those she herself could not name, it did not change the cold reality that there, suddenly lying vulnerably on the concrete and slate, was the same boy she'd ridden horses with while chasing down stolen microchips. The same she'd pulled away from an angry mob in the Clench-ridden rubble of Babylon Towers. The boy who'd vanished for a year and come back inexplicably altered, moving with an assassin's skill.

"You let me hit you," She demanded, angry. "Why?"

"I deserved it. I made a mistake." Robin replied, pulling himself upright, but not meeting her eyes. /I of all people should treasure a secret identity. I certainly know the incalculable harm losing it can cause, and Huntress has no way of knowing I've already done a sweep of the roof and surrounds./ "I'm so sorry I used your name."

Her rage shattered on that, cracking into a heartbroken concern, /Oh, Robin, no! No child ever deserves to be hit for something like that!/ Her fear, coupled with the shadow of her family's murder, had unleashed something dark and unpleasant within her. Robin, using The Crimson's moves, had simply been the target that she'd found to lash out at. It was an ugly realization, and it soured her stomach.

A long moment later, she discharged the taser into the concrete at her feet, startling Robin into making eye contact.

"Oracle really said those things?"

"Well, yeah. That's why I waited out here."

"Ha! You just deduced that she had to have helped me up the security here from 'tough' to 'too difficult for the Batclan'!"

"'Too difficult'-!? You go right on thinking that." He joked back, careful not to smile too much. His lip still hurt, and splitting it open again would just lead to more messy bleeding.

She disarmed the rooftop door lock, and then stepped onto a rough concrete panel that at first glance looked like any other on the roof. Then it sank, the concealed lift shifting silently downwards in response to the commands Huntress had entered into the touchpad on the false door above. Robin hurriedly leapt after her, landing lightly next to her.

"Cool toy," he commented.

"Robin," Huntress turned to him, unexpectedly serious. "The information comes with a price tag."

"Which would be?"

"Don't ever – _ever­_ – let me catch you allowing someone to hit you like that again. Do you understand?! You're not a punching bag, and that's not how you make up for mistakes!"

She stared at him ferociously. Finally, he nodded.

A/N: As always, feedback is heartily encouraged. (I'm not sure how many readers are still with me on Twenty-verse given it's length)


	7. Chapter 7

Aftermath VII

Aftermath VII

Disclaimer: The characters portrayed within belong, with a few exceptions, to DC comics. Not me. I am using them only for that purpose for which they were originally created, namely entertainment. I will probably put them back more or less where I got them from when I'm done. Probably. No profit is being made from this fic (at least, not by me), and in the grand scheme of things I'm far too smallfry and broke to be worth the hassle of suing.

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The images on view were grainy, despite the cutting edge technology offered by the screen. In this day and age of digital wizardry the film seemed almost clumsy. But primitive though it may have seemed, those watching knew – though they may not indeed have cared - that the satellite feed that they were seeing had been provided by the most remarkably fortuitous means.

After all, creating and maintaining a pirate tap into the encrypted feed from an illegal Luthor-designed and -built satellite positioned in geostationary orbit above San Francisco took skill and, frankly, an unnerving degree of guts.

On screen the coarse, stuttering recording showed three figures in conversation, and several others trying to force their way past some sort of obstruction – though none was immediately apparent – to get to the three. The figures huddled close, one dropping to the ground in an ungraceful, but assisted tumble. One of the remaining vanished in a flare of light, the second appeared to glance directly at the camera, at the satellite thousands of miles away. . . . and the sequence dissolved into static.

Long, slim fingers turned off the recording with a decisive flick, which had the added effect of plunging the room into darkness. An instant later, this was rectified by the harsh sterility of halogen lighting. The architecture, a stark unforgiving white, reflected back the illumination with merciless disinterest; here, at least, security was such that said walls had no 'ears'.

Just as well, really, given the sensitivity of matters routinely discussed here.

"Gentlemen, this recording is only a few weeks old."

Sensitive matters, but not necessarily genteel, as a hulking brute of a man who looked distinctly out of place in the suit he'd crammed his straining girth into, guffawed out loud.

"Looks like he still has it," He drawled. "That damn animal habit of trashing technology. Wonder if he's still got the rest of his tricks." He leaned back in his chair, the plush leather and steel creaking ominously under his weight. Small eyes, embedded in layers of overindulged flesh, narrowed as he turned his attention to the woman who'd ceased the playback.

"But that's what you're here to tell us, isn't it." It was not a question, though the woman shrugged in reply.

"We're not sure. It would be logical to assume so, however, given that we thought him dead for the better part of a decade and yet here he is. To have eluded our surveillance, both routine and specific, for that long . . ." She shrugged again, a fluid ripple that elegantly stated her point.

"He's a rogue asset." Whispery and sibilant, the old man in the corner seat shot a glance around the room. Gnarled hands rested on a burled cane, the shaft polished to a brown luster that was the only warmth about the frail-seeming figure. "He always was. And I do not need to remind you what happened when the absolute control we thought we had proved . . . fragile in the extreme."

"But what an asset he was!" The fat man countered, "the best we'd seen, before or since! The mere threat of him cemented our position of power almost unassailably."

At the elder's raised eyebrow, the woman hurriedly intervened. "True, our control methods were flawed, but I think . . ." She paused, marshaled her thoughts, "I think that that no longer matters. The imperfection of our arcane compulsion is irrelevant if we can control his heart."

"Explain."

"He broke from his hiding. Something was important enough to throw away years of careful concealment and head to the home turf of one of the more prominent American superhero teams, despite the surveillance he _must_ have known was there. Something so important and distracting that he didn't even fry the satellite until _after_ it had captured him on film. True, he may have thought it hadn't yet broadcast, but that sort of sloppiness implies his mind was firmly somewhere else."

"Or that he's losing his touch."

"But isn't it worth finding out?" She smiled then, her lips forming a vicious slash across her lower face. "Because I think he hasn't 'lost it'. I think he chose to throw it away for _something_. And," She turned back to the screen, "I think that he'll do anything – _anything_ – to protect whatever it is that is so important."

"And what is it he thinks so highly of?"

"I don't know, sir. But," Her feral rictus widened, "I'll bet the Titans can help me find out."

"And then?"

"Then we take it; it becomes our manipulation mechanism. No half-understood summonings and bindings, no questions to second-rate magicians about what he actually is or how to control him."

"Blackmail, then."

"Or hostage-taking and ransom at the least."

"It will take a critical amount of our current resources." The fat man observed, "Young though they are, the Titans are not to be written off lightly."

The old man was still, eyes closed, breathing deep and even. A casual observer might well have thought him asleep, that the conversation had left him drowsing. None of his present company was that stupid.

"See to it," He said softly, and rose with a grace that belied his years. "A shadow empire rested on that animal, and fell from grace because of it." The walking stick sunk into the carpet, as silent as his footfalls.

At the door he turned, old eyes flashing murderously. "The poetic justice of forcing him to make it rise again appeals to me."

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"Here," Robin looked up from the autopsy report in surprise as a steaming mug was thrust under his nose. Standing next to him, Huntress took a pointed sip of her own as the rich smell of chocolate wafted towards him.

Grateful for more than the cocoa, Robin took the mug, pausing to savor its aroma. It seemed he'd earned a degree of acceptance – or at least guilt – from the other vigilante.

"Go ahead. It's not spiked, tainted, or otherwise poisoned. Promise." She added with a grin. Startled, Robin shot her a calculating glance before hazarding a question.

"Just what has Oracle told you?" At her blank look his shoulders relaxed. _That's unfair. She'd be more likely to taser me like she threatened to on the roof. Toxins aren't her style. Well, even if that's changed, I probably deserve it._ He took a sip, eyes widening at the slight bitterness to the drink. He hadn't thought she'd actually -

"Italian chocolate. Not as sweet as the American crap. And while it's probably a lot more caffeinated, at least I don't have to feel bad about giving a teenager coffee." Her efforts at banter were rewarded with a slight smile from the youth and though she tried not to show it, inwardly she was pleased.

"Thanks." His lips quirked, as he kept a tactful silence on that topic; _She_ might not give him coffee, but that didn't stop it from being one of his major food groups.

Huntress wasn't sure what had happened to the boy - though she'd noted his absence of several months – but it was the things Barbara _hadn't_ told her as much as those she had, that had disturbed her. Couple that with Robin's new-found expertise in assassination techniques. . . _I guess I shouldn't be surprised I overreacted during that fight with the KGBeast._ And it had been an overreaction. Her observation of the Boy Wonder now confirmed it. _He's no more a wanton killer than I am._

It was to Robin's credit that he still made the effort to combat her suspicions, still tried to reach out to her. And blast it if she wouldn't reach back. Kids in need were a specialty of hers regardless of whether it was the cape or the pencil-skirt that she was wearing.

The crinkling noise of a manila folder closing brought her back to the present. Robin, it appeared, had finished reading the file. Sliding it thoughtfully back into the box where it was housed with the police report on the break-in to the Asaro's cell, Robin leaned back against the chair, long fingers wrapping around the mug and brow furrowing in contemplation. Sitting like that he looked like a miniature version of his mentor. Minus the glare. _And minus the sulking – brooding – that is_. She bit back a grin.

"So. Thoughts?" She knew what she thought about the murder, but she also granted she was too close to the victims to have much perspective.

Hopefully Robin wouldn't fall into the same category with the killer.

"I agree, looking at this, that there's no question who did it," Robin said, the tightening of his lips the only visible evidence of how much the idea distressed him, how deeply he'd been hoping to be wrong. _Shishou, a murderer. An assassin. What on earth could make him __**want**__ to kill?_ Desperately, he hauled his mind back on track. The evidence was just . . . it was just clues. That's all. Just clues to help him find his mentor.

"It's the politics that confuse me." He weighed into the silence, aware that Huntress was waiting for him to continue. She blinked in confusion at his sudden change in tack. A commentary on the impossibility of the assassin's entrance, on the technique of the murder, heck, even on the overwrought bloodthirstiness of the hit wouldn't have surprised her, but this angle?

"What do you mean?"

"The hit. It was a statement piece. 'We can get you anywhere, anytime' type of thing. But only of minor players; someone wanted to make a show of strength, but without precipitating a war." Huntress nodded at his words. They tallied nicely with her own assessment.

"But the Crimson is known only to be a Yakuza player." He gestured at her files, not mentioning the results of his own extensive database searches. "He was never contracted to the Five Families – at least that we know of. And it seems unlikely given their unswerving affection for the concept of gun-'em-down overkill." He mused, more to himself than her.

"This degree of subtlety. . . No, I think the hit was called by Yakuza, a challenge for territory or resources. Or one of the Families wanting it to look that way." Stricken, he glanced towards her, suddenly recalling exactly who it was he was sitting with.

Reassuring him with an encouraging nod that she'd taken no offense, she gestured to him. "Go on."

"So the question is, who benefited from the hit? Who ordered it?" Gently, he swirled the fast-cooling cocoa. "And most importantly, how on earth did they force my Master into doing it?"

He was unaware he'd spoken the last aloud until Huntress' hand landed on his shoulder, warm and reassuring.

"Whatever the Crimson did, whatever he taught you, he is responsible for his own killings. Not you." Even though she didn't believe his mentor had been _forced_ to do _anything_ he didn't want to, Huntress still somehow wanted to protect Robin from an idea he obviously had trouble dealing with.

She'd meant her comment to be reassuring, he knew, but Robin found it chilling. _But what if he really __**isn't**__ responsible? When she came to take back the Hagoromo, Kaguya mentioned she'd rescued him years ago. But she never said what from. What if this is it?_

If somebody had been able to force his master to kill. . .

If somebody had had that level of control over him . . .

If he'd been like Tim . . . like Vingt. . . somebody's puppet. . .

_More than finding Shishou, I have to find out __**if**__ this happened. I have to know who did this,_ he thought grimly, _and make sure that it can't happen again._

Because Kaguya was gone, back to her home world and taking her Hagoromo with her.

And anyone else's rescue efforts could well be a long time in coming.

End part VII

Obligatory Author's Ramble: For those of you who are still with me – albeit silently - on this fic, I'm glad. For those of you who've let me know that you're still here, heartfelt thanks and kudos on your patience. Comments and criticism greatly appreciated.


	8. Chapter 8

Disclaimer: The characters portrayed herein belong largely to DC comics, which I understand to be a subdivision of AOLTimeWarner. This is a large, multinational corporation. I am not. Therefore, most of these characters are not mine.

My brand spanking new computer, on the other hand, is mine **beams happily** (and it actually reliably switches on! Wheee!)

NB: a gentle reminder; in Twenty-verse Young Justice is still around, and while Tim's not a member of the Titans he's been to the island at least once. (He's also punched out Arsenal and threatened Donna with bloody retribution so won't be winning any popularity contests there anytime soon.)

Aftermath VIII

He could, of course, just have asked. It would certainly have been far and away the simplest option. They probably would even have said 'yes', if only in some misguided attempt to help him 'settle his inner demons' or somesuch. He suppressed a smirk at the thought. If only they knew.

Next best, obviously, should have involved manufacturing an excuse, another plausible and logical reason for his interest. Possibly even digging up a relevant case of his own from the files or more likely from the Titan's more outre offerings. Anything to justify a trip up to the Archives.

What he was doing wasn't even a distant third - or fourth - on the inventory of rational ways and means. In fact, it was so far down that list that it was close kissing cousins to utter insanity.

But, and he allowed himself a slight grin, it was also _fun_.

From a certain point of view.

And realistically? he probably had Shishou to 'thank' for that mindset; the man's love of mischief was legendary within the Mireba clan. He could almost hear the other's voice, then, ghosting through his thoughts and causing his lips to twitch into a real smile. Taking one look at the situation, Shishou would have laughed, ruffled his hair, and said something like_, //why Little Bird, no thanks are necessary. Look at what you're doing as a result of being my student; You're having fun! That's a great compliment to my teaching.//_

It hadn't quite been intended that way.

Anyone else - sane, or even, he would wager, moderately impaired - would have baulked at undertaking the activity he was currently engaged in with his usual sanguine aplomb.

Then again, for most humans, the JLA base on the moon was an inaccessible watchtower safeguarding the planet; first, best, and often last source of Earth's protection, it was as jealously guarded as most major military institutions, despite the forbidding remoteness that was its primary defence.

So, naturally, with those things in mind it'd taken him just under an hour to break in.

He sighed. An hour was pretty good, really, though it would have been less than that, except that he wanted to maintain some modicum of secrecy about his visit, if only to practice the valuable sneaky time skills the Shishou had taught him. (And it was the Shishou; Batman had given him the basics, but the Shishou had raised that to an artform. And then taught him, fractured and splintered though his psyche had been, how to enjoy the thrill of whole-body movement and the quieter warmth of fine skill, the rushing delight of ability - and ability tested - as a reward in and of itself rather than merely a means to an end. )

The Shishou he'd learned from, sparred with, and been befriended by seemed physically incapable of not enjoying the mischief that laced his life, no matter wether that mischief came in the form of serving tea to a prominent industrial family's self-styled princess, or teaching a little lost bird how to pick triple-sealed electro-optic locks in null gravity. (And they _were_ only triple-sealed. Looked like someone - possibly the Flash or Green Lantern - had gotten lazy about activating Batman's supplementary security measures.)

He wondered how his Shishou's legendary delight in mischief had fared when - if, if, he reminded himself - he'd been The Crimson, then tore his thoughts away from the idea and back onto the task at hand. It was certainly challenging enough to occupy his attention, and answers were why he was here anyway.

****^^^^^*****^^^^^^

Earlier.

He'd used, after careful consideration, the Titan's teleporter to make it to the moon. It was simple common sense; though the security on the small island tower rivaled that of the White House, it was still earthbound, and with breathable atmosphere.

Well, breathable once he'd finished with the SCUBA gear he'd used to support himself after hitching a ride on the outside of one of the transport capsules that ran between the island and the city for the convenience of flightless Titans. Beastboy hadn't even noticed the slight slowing of his transport as it shifted the very minimal extra weight of the current boy wonder and the capsule itself had simply compensated; it had long since been digitally programmed to allow a wide range of weights for the green shapeshifter, who was not above transforming into a house cat to sleep on the seat for the trip home, or a kangaroo to bounce impatiently through the small cabin on the way out.

I'll have to speak to Dick about that at some point. Tim mused. Though in all reality most of the Titan's regular stable of foes simply smashed their way into the tower with various degrees of panache, it was always theoretically possible one of them would grow a brain and discover the value of subtlety. //_Though Beastboy is the only Titan who gets a two hundred kilogramme weight variance programmed into his passenger recognition profile at the security check-in on the dock. That's a lot of beer and pizza.// _

The capsule had gotten him safely past the water-based defenses, though he'd let go just before the routine external surface scan had run over the transport prior to docking. Wedging himself against the clamp that held the cabin firmly for the scan, he watched impassively as the green light beams traced over the surfaces he'd clung to like a limpet only seconds before. As the docking door met, sealed and opened to disgorge an oblivious Beastboy into the tower, Robin neatly pulled himself around the clamp, heading for the beach that girded one side of the island. By coming in with the transport, he'd bypassed most of the security netting and underwater sensors that guarded the pleasure area, and it was simplicity itself to take a deep lungful of air and then slip off the SCUBA tank and slide his small frame through one of the tidal equilibration channels that kept the island's base stable in the face of it's changeable watery surrounds. A brisk, minute-long swim and he was surfacing behind the diving rocks of the beach.

He'd carried his full set of lock-picks, a digital override, and even a small EMP generator (with a twenty centimeter effective radius - the latest in a long line of bat toys) to get through the deceptively welcoming glass doors into the main building, but in the end all he had to do was walk in.

Well, climb in across the ceiling, behind Starfire as she ducked inside, grabbing something that Robin could only assume was fertilizer for her Tamaranian garden before she headed out again. Quietly releasing the suction caps on his hands and knees, he slipped silently to the floor and began a gentle lope through the corridors.

Security was fairly minimal once inside the tower itself, and he supposed that made sense. It wouldn't really do for klaxons to sound every time Lian, for example, left her room to wander to the bathroom or kitchen. But still, even with the necessary evasion of the multiplicity of security cameras, it did make it a little too easy to get to the transporter room.

Cracking the locks on the chamber was child's play as Robin simply didn't; leaving them alone, he instead loop-fed the security feedback from the standard safety override line to the central computer, then activated the emergency access. No signal was sent to the monitor room, and he walked right in.

A digital patch he'd created on one of Oracle's subsidiary systems allowed him to enter his data onto the teleport database as an anonymous - but allowed - passenger authorised for one round trip and with that he rematerialised several thousand kilometers away on the moon base.

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The Justice League's Moon Base library annex was one of the most well-stocked superhero-oriented hardcopy databases in existence. Not least of all because it was a tremendously secure site (In theory, anyway) but also because of the frequent need of the Base's usual occupants to research some of the more obscure - and highly sensitive - aspects of villain-dom, often at very short notice.

As Tim himself had been known to comment, in the current digital age, nothing on any computer was truly safe. So it was that the most sensitive of reports and treatises were written out by hand or typewriter, and then locked into the extensive filing system of the Moon, if they were documented at all.

It was generally suspected that the Batman kept a duplicate archive in the Batcave, and that this was what enabled him to keep spookily current with the latest in supervillainy, (and make his hero-gone-bad contingency plans) though the theories concerning how he got the duplicates - especially after he'd left the JLA - ranged from grim to downright bizarre.

Tim knew the duplicate Batcave archive was a cleverly perpetrated fiction. It did not exist, and never had.

No, the Batman's duplicates were hidden far better than that, and the security for that site would have been far harder to crack than merely breaking into a moon base. Raiding the moon for the information he needed was good practice and good fun, raiding Batman's copy of the archive would have been sheer suicidality.

Not that he hadn't been half-tempted to give it a go anyway.

But time was growing short; though Huntress' investigative efforts had rapidly met a finite end, his own had opened a veritable can of worms. And it was the sensitivity of the information he sought; the potential for it to threaten one of his adoptive kindred clan, as well as to initiate some doomed but well-meaning intervention from the Batclan that comprised his second self-appointed family that lent a special urgency to his mission. He knew the Batclan still watched him closely, and though they supported him unstintingly, he rather doubted that their trust would extend to what would appear to be an unhealthy obsession with one of the criminal underworld's more accomplished mass murderers.

His research within the JLA satellite was to be short, and highly targeted. That was fine; the less esoteric information he had already obtained from earth, and frankly Robin had deemed it unlikely that the world's heaviest-hitting defense force would have much information on the comparatively small-fry assassin, especially since The Crimson was not known to have ever targeted a Costume. No, this little enterprise was more about the final bits of information necessary to test a hypothesis than the raw data required to formulate the theory.

The clues that formed that base data were there, if one chose to look, and the story they told, while not pretty, was none the less compelling.

The Crimson had been ruthless, efficient, and not without a certain grim panache. There was no evidence of his training, nor even any period of up-and-coming butchery that Robin, with all his information gathering genius, could detect. No, The Crimson had simply exploded onto the scene some years ago, taking a minor criminal group he was in service to to the dizzying pinnacle of the international vice rackets within months; his unique style of slaughter, coupled with some singularly remarkable political maneuvering by the then-new female clan head had established the clan's grip on the triads as unshakeable.

Then, the newly-fanged triads had, under the machinations of this fresh leadership, given the Mob a serious run for their money in both the United States and, more tellingly, Europe, with a combination of blood and promise.

They'd been poised to conquer if not the world, then at least that portion of it that was held by the seamy underbelly of illegality and immorality. Triumph had seemed inevitable, with even lone hold-outs such as the antecedents of King Snake and his ilk succumbing.

Then it had all crumbled; the Crimson had vanished with as much panache as his arrival - a hail of blood and fire and debris as he took out a building in the process. That the leader of the clan that had held his allegiance had died as the building burned was a discovery Robin had been unsurprised to make.

Th_e body was only partly charred and still intact enough to be identifiable. There was no mistake on that score, both dental records and genotyping confirmed it._ With a certain grim amusement, Robin recalled his own 'death'. _But the genetic studies undertaken at the time make that prospect substantially less likely. Not impossible, but less likely._

No bells had rung when he'd tracked down the names of the loose conglomerate that now ruled the clan, but it was when digging up information on the ex-leader's known affiliates, that Robin struck pay-dirt.

As it turned out, the consort of the deceased triad leader was not simply a hanger-on, a fact that could have been assumed - and indeed that error had been made by Huntress - by his lack of direct involvement with the shady side of the clan's business. In point of fact, had one simply followed the documentary evidence, it would seem that the woman had been pointedly not only keeping him out of the thick of things, but well away from even the periphery of anything vice-related.

Unlike Helena, Robin did not assume it was out of some misplaced sense of love or virtue on the part of the triad's then-new leader, some desire to keep her lover's hands clean, deny him any awareness of the criminality that supported his lifestyle.

So he looked.

He dug, beneath the surface, beyond the respectable consort of an equally 'respectable businesswoman'.

He shattered the first fake identity like it was glass.

The second and third took a little longer.

The fourth identity he found left him breathless with shock, though only for a moment. A moment after that, and he had begun collecting the equipment he would need to undertake something he'd previously only considered as an intellectual exercise. The tools he required for a little spot of B and E . . . of the JLA's Moon Base.

Demons - like devils, the Endless, and occasionally Muses - could be summoned, bound and compelled.

Forced to do almost anything by their masters, save enjoy the experience.

Forced to grant wishes of wealth and power, forced to destroy if that was their skill.

Forced to kill.

_//We are not so very different after all, Shishou_.//

The dull horror of his discovery had deepened into a slow, banked rage all the more potent for it's very subtlety by the time Robin found the requisite file.

_//Felix Faust,// _ he mused, scanning the pages with rapid thoroughness, //_it seems past time we had a little talk.//_


End file.
